


Stag Nights and Jail Cells

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brief Description of Torture, Drunk!Sherlock, M/M, One Shot, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Serbia - Freeform, Stag Night, drunk!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The holding cell Sherlock and John are thrown in during John's ill-fated stag night reminds Sherlock a bit too much of his confinement in Serbia. Drunk!John does his best to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stag Nights and Jail Cells

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this while I was writing my most recent chapter for my other fic, Crashing. My headcannon was that Sherlock wanted to hold John's hand while they were in jail because he was scared, because of the time he spent in a cell in Serbia. 
> 
> In the episode, I thought it was conspicuous that Sherlock's hand was dangling off the side of the cot, right in front of John, as if it was there for a reason. I suppose this is my response to that.

As they stumbled into the holding cell, Sherlock heard the ominous clicking and clattering of a barred door being shut and locks being locked. In his haze, he couldn't quite name the feeling he experienced, but he distinctly felt a chill run across his forearms arms and calves, and an unnatural squeeze settling in the center of his chest. He didn't realize he had been walking backwards until he toppled over John, who was sitting on the floor directly behind him for some reason.

"Jaaaawn? Why did we do the number of drinks we did?" Sherlock wondered, while futilely attempting to disentangle his limbs from John's.

"The number of what?"

"The drinks, I had an app, Molly did numbers..."

"Molly!" John was simultaneously confused and angry that Molly would have been involved with the app on Sherlock's phone that he had been using to document John's intake and output all night.

"Molly, she did the numbers."

"No, I did." John raised his eyebrows proudly while pointing into the center of his chest. "It was me. I did the drinks."

"You... what? Did we find the dead boyfriend?"

"No, no... you threw up on the carpet. He wasn't home."

"Why would he be home? He's dead. Or invisi-invisi... invisibible." Sherlock realized dimly that he had started breathing far heavier than their current situation required, and his chest was beginning to ache.  _What does this feeling do? Not normal for drunk._

"Sher'lk, hey, hey, stop that. You're breathing too fast," John said as he scooted over on the floor to sit closer to Sherlock, with their shoulders touching. "Don't worry. Mycroft will get us in the morning. Sleep it off."

When Sherlock didn't answer him, John started to worry, but he wasn't exactly up to the task of providing top-notch medical care in his inebriated state.  _Physical assessment, Watson. Get it together. Hold your liquor._ Sherlock was clammy, his eyes pinched shut, and was hyperventilating. John couldn't keep track of his pulse long enough to count it properly, but he could tell it was far too fast. John shook his head briskly, attempting to clear the fog of alcohol for at least a brief moment, but it only served to nauseate him further. He took a deep breath, and in a voice he hoped sounded steadier than he felt, addressed Sherlock again.

"Hey, now. What's wrong? Talk to me. Does something hurt?"

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John watched as his pupils darted around as if he was a trapped animal. By this time, he had brought his knees close to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs, and was digging into his thighs with his fingertips. John felt a memory tugging at the back of his mind, something about his fellow soldiers from Afghanistan, but he couldn't grasp it before it floated away, back to his subconscious. 

"Sherlock. Are you in pain?" John asked, more firm this time, one of his hands squeezing a thin shoulder slightly. 

Sherlock glanced up at John as if he thought he had been alone in the cell. "I... no. Not pain. Um, chest... squeezing? Cold?" He looked up at John for confirmation, as if John knew Sherlock's symptoms better than himself, before he continued. "Reminds me of Serbia. Scared. In my head." Sherlock closed his eyes tightly again, pushing his eye sockets on to his knees, and looking remarkably small for a man of his stature.

He couldn't keep the memories of his time in Serbia at bay. Images of his torture kept leaking in, slowly at first, and then more steadily, and he was sure that a dam somewhere in his mind palace was going to burst, soon. All he could feel was the cool concrete beneath his body, so much like the hard floor of his cell where he was held captive. His ragged breaths reverberated against the cinderblock walls. He felt as if his throat were closing up, and bugs were crawling beneath his skin. He recalled the shackles that had worn his skin away, leaving bloody, raw meat to chafe against the steel, only to be torn open again when he moved and cracked the dried blood. He struggled to breathe as he remembered the stinging burn of the whip or cane against his back, his body tensing in anticipation for the blow that he knew, logically, was not coming. He had to be ready anyway.

It took John a couple of minutes to put together the pieces of what Sherlock was saying.  _Serbia? When was he in Serbia? Oh, while he was dead maybe. Sherlock doesn't get scared though. Whatever this is reminding him of must be bad. Oh. Fear. Chest pain. Hyperventilation. Chills. He's having a panic attack. Duh, Watson. Losing your touch. Good thing you don't usually practice medicine drunk in a jail cell._

"Hey, it's okay. We're in... England. I think. The guard was British. We just got a little too drunk to be clueing for looks." John patted Sherlock's shoulder in a way that he wanted to be reassuring, but ended up making the detective flinch. "Sorry, just trying to help. You have to breathe. You're gonna pass out." John took an exaggerated breath in, exhaled slowly, and nearly vomited before swallowing hard and forcing his stomach to behave.  _Exactly how many shots did I do tonight?_  When Sherlock appeared to be making an attempt to regulate his breathing, John reached out for Sherlock's hand and placed it on his own sternum, so that Sherlock could feel the rise and fall of John's slow, deep breaths.

"Good, good. Keep doing that, yeah? You're fine, we're in England, and we're drunk off our arses. Everything's okay."

Sherlock blinked back at John, his eyes looking owlish in the dim streetlight filtering through the window. He nodded in understanding at John's pronouncement that "everything's okay," but it was clear that his nervous system was intent on everything being pointedly  _not okay_. He started a mantra to himself in his head,  _this is not Serbia, this is England, John is here, no one is hurting me, we are drunk, I am safe, this is not Serbia._

After several minutes of breathing in synch with John, forcing his brain to accept that being behind bars and sitting on concrete did not necessarily mean he was going to be beaten or chained or water-boarded, he began to slowly relax his posture, suddenly realizing how desperately exhausted he felt. It must have shown on his face, because the next second, John was pushing Sherlock's curls back from his forehead, reassuring him that everything was okay, and telling him that he should kip on the one cot they had. Two failed attempts at standing later, they managed to get Sherlock's lanky frame onto the thin cot with minimal injury to both parties. 

Sherlock tilted his head to his side to look at John, where he was sitting on the floor with his against the wall. "Jaaawn."

John blinked over at him, already half-asleep. "Hm? Sh'lock?"

Sherlock thrust his hand out in front of John, opening and closing his fingers a few times for emphasis. John cocked his head to one side and decided he didn't care much what the guard might think, especially since he was intoxicated and so exhausted he could barely think in a straight line. He reached out and laced his fingers with Sherlock's, giving them a gentle squeeze, before settling his head back against the wall and closing his heavy eyelids. Right before he drifted off, he faintly heard the soft rumble of Sherlock's voice, saying something that almost sounded like "thank you."

 _Jesus. I must really be drunk if I think he's saying thank you_ , was John's last thought before he dropped off into a dreamless sleep, still holding on to Sherlock's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I do actually have PTSD, and I've had my fair share of panic attacks, so I'm not trying to glamorize anything about the disorder or offend anyone. Just in case you were curious and/or offended.


End file.
